


and life goes on (without you)

by weareallmadeofstardust



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (it's jason's fault), Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I feel like I wrote the same fic 7 times but I'm sick of staring at it, Steph is one of Bruce's kids and anyone who says otherwise can fight me, fight me dc, including dc, minor language, very little angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 17:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18525844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weareallmadeofstardust/pseuds/weareallmadeofstardust
Summary: The Waynes are long gone, but sometimes Bruce can still see their echoes.





	and life goes on (without you)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "No One But You" by Queen.

The first thing that Bruce noticed when he woke up was that he was not in his bed.

This wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence, though, and since there was nothing else suspicious he could note, he discarded the idea of capture.

The second thing he noticed, just after the first, was the music.

He frowned, sitting up. That was uncommon. None of the house's occupants were the type to play music loudly- there was a certain respect for silence amongst them. And even if they were, he didn’t think any of them tended to listen to… piano music with sour notes every dozen measures?

He stood up- apparently he’d fallen asleep on the couch in his study- and followed the noise.

His search led him to the music room, which made his chest clench. He hadn’t heard noise from here in decades. No one had.

The door was cracked, so Bruce slipped in silently, gaze falling on the grand piano sitting proudly in the center of the room. Martha Wayne’s piano.

The figure hunched over the keys, though, was not Martha Wayne. It was Tim.

As Bruce watched from the doorway, Tim hit a wrong note and cursed softly under his breath, thin fingers shifting to correct the mistake. He didn’t seem to notice Bruce, lost in the music.

And lost he was, hands dancing across the keys like a puppeteer with his strings, shoulders trembling just slightly. The notes rang out through the room, soft so as not to disturb anyone sleeping in the other side of the manor, but emotional. Filled with more life than Bruce had seen in Tim, lately.

The sound built, crescendoing into a ringing melody. Bruce closed his eyes as he listened, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

The moment was ruined when Tim’s hands slipped, keys clanging and the sound fading. TIm cursed.

“What kind of _sadistic monster-”_ he muttered, turning his back on the sheet music pointedly. Bruce could pinpoint the exact moment when awareness of his surroundings returned, because his eyes stretched comically wide and he choked on a gasp.

“Bruce- I- how long have you been-”

“About three minutes.” Bruce moved fully into the room, shutting the door behind him.

“I, uh, didn’t expect anyone to be up.” Tim ran his fingers across the pristine white keys, as if wiping off imaginary dirt. “Did I wake you?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Bruce lied. “I didn’t know you played piano.”

Tim fiddled with the edge of his sweatshirt, which was far too big and technically had originally been Bruce’s. “I haven’t, for a while. I learned when I was ten or so. I had… a lot of free time when I was younger.”

Bruce remembered with an internal grimace what he knew about Tim’s childhood, pieced together from a collage of idle comments and travel records. “A lot of free time” was probably an understatement.

“Did you, uh,” Tim said, snapping Bruce back to reality. “Did you need something?”

They both knew what he wasn’t saying. _Is it a bad night?_

“My mother played the piano,” was what he ended up saying.

Tim’s brows creased just slightly, mouth turning into a subtle frown. “This was hers.”

Bruce nodded. “She could have performed, she was so good, but she wanted to keep it for herself. My father and I, we’d come and sit in here and listen to her play in the afternoons. Sometimes Alfred too, if we were lucky. It was like the whole world fell away for her, and she was always startled when we clapped. She’d let me sit next to her and listen sometimes, if I was quiet. That was always my favorite.”

Tim looked down at the keys, the tips of his ears flushing red. “I’m not great, I mean, I’m way out of practice. I just can’t get this phrase right, and the dynamics are all wrong.”

Bruce didn’t bother to hide the thickness in his voice when he said, “It sounded lovely, Tim.”

His son’s cheeks turned red, and he said, “I just meant to play a little bit and then go back to bed, but if you want to, you can sit and listen?”

Bruce nodded and turned to walk towards the chairs sitting for the audience, but Tim just scooched over on the bench and patted the seat beside him. He changed course and sat on the bench, watching as Tim rested his fingers on the keys.

He started to play again, a bit uncertain at first, then more confident. A few lines in, and Tim was gone, hands moving like pale dancers as the music swelled. Bruce tipped his head back and closed his eyes, letting the sound resonate through his chest, like it was calling him home.

It was as if he was in two times at once, simultaneously a man with too many scars and a little boy with innocence unsullied. The figure at his side was his son, but the music seemed to send ripples across decades, bringing the image of his mother to mind as clearly as if she was sitting beside him.

The last notes echoed, filling the empty space. Bruce opened his eyes and saw Tim watching him, lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Thank you,” Bruce said, trusting that Tim would fill in the gaps.

TIm smiled, running his fingertips over the piano one last time. “Maybe I should take it back up again.”

Bruce rested one hand on TIm’s back, meeting his gaze. “I think… I think she would have liked that.”

Tim shifted closer to Bruce, turned a page in the music, and started to play again. Bruce closed his eyes, and they stayed there until the sun rose golden above the trees.

* * *

Damian was not as subtle as he thought he was.

Bruce noticed him sneaking out of the Cave immediately, cape in his arms, still wearing most of his uniform. It wasn’t particularly surprising, if he was being honest. Still, he didn’t entirely expect him to be… mewling?

“Damian,” he said slowly. His son froze.

“Father,” he replied, unsuccessfully trying to conceal the bundle of cape he had cradled in his arms.

“Why are you meowing.”

“I’m not meowing,” he said, eyes flicking away from Bruce’s. The cape was moving.

“Show me what you’re holding.”

Damian held up the cape. “It got torn on patrol, and I was taking it upstairs for repairs before Pennyworth saw.”

Bruce decided not to mention that there was a perfectly good sewing kit downstairs or that Alfred knew every scratch their uniforms sustained, as a fuzzy head poked out just before Damian pulled it back towards his chest. The kitten looked around blearily, white fur damp and dirty, and yawned before cuddling back into the bundle of fabric. Damian blushed.

Bruce sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How many.”

“...four,” he muttered. “They were in the gutters and it was raining, Father, I couldn’t just leave them there.”

“You know we can’t keep them, Damian,” he said. The boy hunched his shoulders defensively.

“I know. I was intending to care for them tonight and ask Grayson to accompany me to the animal shelter tomorrow.” Damian stroked one finger over the kitten’s head, murmuring something in Arabic to it.

Bruce sighed. “Come on. We can put them in my room for tonight. That way they can’t bother Titus and Alfred.”

Damian brightened, following Bruce to his room and setting the cape down carefully on the bed. Four kittens were revealed- the white one, two with dusty tan fur, and one with brown fur so dark it was almost black.

“Go find a box and get some of the towels from my bedroom,” Bruce ordered, gently rubbing the kittens to help warm them up. Damian nodded and left.

Bruce pulled his communicator out of his pocket and unmuted it. “Dick.”

 _“What’s up, B?”_ he asked breathlessly. _“I’m just heading home, did you need something?”_

“Yes,” he replied. “Kitten formula.”

There was a pause. _“...kitten formula? Why?”_

“For the kittens,” he said dryly.

Dick sighed. _“I’ll drop some off. See ya, B.”_

Bruce muted the communicator and tucked it away as the while kittens mewled at him petulantly. “Hush, little one,” he murmured, gently smoothing back its fur.

Damian returned with the box and towels and watched as Bruce arranged them before gently settling the kittens inside.

“Is learning how to care for kittens part of the Batman training?” Damian asked dryly. Bruce smirked.

“No,” he replied. Damian looked at him expectantly.

Bruce sighed. “My father was forever bringing home stray animals if they looked at him pitifully enough. We’d have them here for a few nights before my mother or Alfred would make him bring them to the animal shelter downtown. That’s why it’s the Wayne Shelter- he donated to them every year, and I bought it after their death.”

Damian looked thoughtful, stroking the dark kitten with gentle fingertips. “I had been considering volunteering there.”

Bruce let one corner of his mouth turn up. “We can arrange that tomorrow, if you’d like.”

Damian tried to hide his smile by leaning into the kittens’ box. “I would like that very much.”

There was a rap on the door, and Alfred entered, holding a paper bag. “Master Dick sent kitten formula. He said you requested it.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said, taking the bag.

Alfred paused, looking into the box. “Are these… going to be permanent additions?”

“Just for the night.” Bruce gently rubbed one of the tan kittens, and Alfred’s mouth quirked up at the corners.

“Master Damian found them, I assume?”

Damian glanced up from where he was letting the brown kitten nuzzle his fingertips. “Yes.”

“Just like your grandfather,” Alfred muttered. “Is this going to be a regular occurance?”

Bruce glanced over to Damian. He was smiling down at the box, not cocky or sarcastic, a genuine smile as the kittens crawled over one another. It made him look so much younger.

“It seems likely to me,” Bruce remarked. “Don’t you think?”

Alfred followed his gaze. “I’ll make arrangements.”

He left quietly, and Bruce watched as Damian whispered something gentle to the kitten that squeaked at his hands. “My father had a kind soul,” he said into the quiet.

Damian didn’t look up, but Bruce could tell he was waiting for him to continue. He’d never ask, but Bruce kept talking anyway.

“He wasn’t as outgoing as my mother, not as vibrant as her. But he loved his family deeply, and he helped every creature he could. Big or small.”

Bruce paused. Damian glanced at him, an unreadable look in his eyes.

“You’re a lot like him,” Bruce remarked. “He’d have loved you.”

Damian held his gaze for a moment later before he looked back at the box. His cheeks were flushed with what Bruce thought might have been pride, and he failed to hide a smile.

“I am… glad,” he said, his accent thickening in the way it always did when he was emotional. “Thank you.”

Bruce smiled, ruffling his hair and ignoring his squak of protest. “What do you say I teach you how to feed kittens?”

Damian looked up at him, face softer than Bruce was used to seeing. “I think that would be most agreeable.”

* * *

Gotham was used to Stephanie Brown.

No one knew what exactly her relation to their “royal family” was, other than she was often seen with them in public, attended their galas, and posted videos of them making bad decisions on the internet. She was something of an enigma to the general public.

It wasn’t hard for an interested person to track down who she was, even if they didn’t know who she was to the Waynes. Crime Alley kid, daughter of a former addict and a criminal, now brushing shoulders with the richest of the rich. A verifiable rags-to-riches story. 

Still, even if Gotham knew who she was and who she was with, they didn’t know how she’d gotten there. And they were curious.

“Miss Brown,” one particularly excitable reporter asked, brandishing a pen and paper like a weapon. “Would you be willing to give an interview?”

Bruce pursed his lips. The young woman was like a particularly annoying fly, he reflected. She didn’t seem malicious, but he was thoroughly sick of reporters. Particularly around his kids.

“No,” Steph said flatly, not slowing or stopping. The woman temporarily deflated, but then sprang back into motion, following them down the street.

“How did you first meet the Waynes?” she asked, like an overexcited puppy. Bruce tried not to growl.

“I hit Timothy in the face with a brick and they kept me around out of spite,” she said, voice dripping with snark.

The young woman’s eyes went round, and she scribbled something on her notepad, stumbling to keep up with them. “Miss Brown, are you sure you wouldn’t like to give an interview? Or you, Mr. Wayne?”

“No,” he grunted, clipped and short. She smiled at him, all honey-sweet and not listening to the chill in his voice.

“Maybe another time, then?” she suggested, turning a page in her notepad. “I could set up an appointment.”

“No, thank you,” he said, the ice in his voice growing thicker. She just kept following them, bumping into the pedestrians that paused to stare. Great. One of the clueless ones.

“I’m sure we’d be willing to work around your schedule,” she said, addressing Stephanie now. “Everyone would _love_ to hear more about that story you mentioned, I’m sure.”

Steph didn’t even say anything, just leveled her with a Look that could make a pot of water boil on command.

She had probably learned it from Alfred.

The reporter doesn’t seem to notice, saying, “All of Gotham knows you’re friends. What changed? Was your exposure to him a good influence, after your… upbringing?”

Bruce stopped walking abruptly. The woman’s sugar sweetness never faltered, but he knew an insult when he heard them. He knew the kind of judgement that came with Gotham’s elite and nipped at his childrens’ heels.

Steph stopped, too, and touched his wrist lightly. She shot him a look full of something like warning and turned to the woman, meeting her smile with a sickly sweet one of her own.

“Oh, of course, I’d be willing to give you a few words,” she said, face filled with false warmth. “You want a statement? Here it is: leave me alone. You have followed us four blocks because you can’t take a hint. The Waynes are my family, more than my father _ever_ was, and that’s all I’ll say on the subject.”

She turned away, tugging Bruce by the wrist. He followed. The reporter stayed where she was, eyes wide.

 _“God,_ she was annoying,” she muttered, ignoring the pedestrians who paused to stare at them. _“Oooh, Miss Brown, how’d you quit being a Crime Alley rat?”_

“You handled her well, Stephanie,” he told her. She only spared him a glance.

“Wasn’t looking for your approval, B-man. But thanks.”

He grimaced. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say- Stephanie was always a delicate spot, with their shared bad memories and the faint distance still between them and how he’d done so, so wrong by her. But she was one of his children, and he was trying. He just didn’t have the words to make her understand that.

“My mother hated the press,” he said eventually.

Steph looked up at him, this time with curiosity, rather than anger. He continued.

“She wouldn’t tell them a damn thing, no matter how many times they asked. She was an enigma to them, but so full of life you could see it from a mile away. It was part of why they loved her so much.”

Bruce rested a hand on her shoulder and said nothing more.

“Well,” Steph said eventually. “I’m glad to carry on the frankly _beautiful_ legacy of not caring about the press.”

Bruce chuckled, and they started off down the street again, settling into a companionable silence.

“Tell you what,” he said eventually. “The ice cream place on Fourth Street started selling vigilante-themed flavors last week and Tim was singing the praise of the Batgirl flavor for a full hour.”

Steph grinned. “I like the way you think, B. You’re buying.”

“Don’t tell your brothers,” he said, lips quirking up in a smile. He realized his mistake when she stumbled and turn to stare at him.

“My.. what now?”

“You’re part of the family, Stephanie,” he said, stilted and uncomfortable, and he cursed his inability to articulate it. “You have your mother, yes, and I wouldn’t take that away, but you’ll always have a place with us.”

“I… uh, thanks,” she said, cheeks flushing. “Thanks, B.”

He smiled. “Ice cream?”

“You bet,” she said, grin spreading across her face. “Now get moving, slowpoke.”

“Teenagers,” he muttered. “Always so demanding.”

Her laugh floated over the Gotham streets, and Bruce followed her away from the crowds to ice cream and a peaceful afternoon.

* * *

Batman rarely got to patrol with Black Bat anymore. They both had their hands full with their patrol routes, and their cases hardly ever crossed paths. He got to see her in their civilian identities, of course, but there was something different patrolling with her compared to his boys.

Maybe it was how intuitive she was. When their suspect went running from a firefight, Batman didn’t even have to signal that he would follow- he just ran. Black Bat had things handled.

By the time he returned, the thugs were lying on the floor in various degrees of unconsciousness and distress. The kidnapped victims were huddled nearby, away from the shaking mass on the floor.

Black Bat was crouched on the above a man lying in the grime, his shaking clear even from a distance. One hand was pressed firmly against his stomach, and Batman realized as he moved closer that he was bleeding out, staining the concrete red. There was no saving him.

Batman moved closer, and although Black Bat knew he was there, she didn’t look up. The dying man didn’t seem to notice him. His hand clasped desperately at Black Bat’s cape, the fear in his eyes almost palpable. Batman stopped; there was nothing he could do for him that his daughter couldn’t do better.

“Oh god,” he wheezed. “Oh, god. I- I’m- it _hurts.”_ Blood bubbled from his lips, and Black Bat grasped his hand in hers.

“Easy,” she whispered, almost too soft for Batman to hear. “Easy. Not alone.”

Something in the man’s eyes softened, and his breath evened, just a bit. “My daughter,” he gasped. “She-”

“Name,” Black Bat said, thumb tracing circles on his hand.

“Sophia.” It was barely more than a breath, his chest heaving. “Sophia Marisson.”

Black Bat nodded, squeezing the man’s hand. Something tightened in Batman’s chest.

“Easy,” she said softly, and her voice was like rain pattering soft against the windows. “Help her. Easy.”

“Thank-” He coughed, blood splattering across his chest and Black Bat’s uniform. “Thank you.”

Then his eyes closed, and Black Bat’s hand moved to his throat. She sat back, posture softening with exhaustion.

“Black Bat,” he rumbled.

She looked up at him, and her face was tired, drawn. Resigned. “Noah Marisson. Civilian. Crossfire.”

Batman nodded, moving to set a hand against her shoulder. She tipped her head to trap it where it was, soaking in the comfort she didn’t usually need.

“You did well,” he said, for lack of anything else. “Make sure the criminals are secure and call Gordon. I’ll help the civilians.”

She looked up at him, then nodded. She took his outstretched hand, and he lifted her easily to her feet, letting her gather herself. Then she was off, steps light and back straight. He moved towards the huddle of victims.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “You’re safe now.”

A little girl came scrambling forwards and latched on tightly to one of his legs. “I don’t- I don’t know where mama is.”

He knelt down and rested a palm against her hair, gentle and soft. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Mary,” she said, lip quivering. “Mary Jones. I was out late, and a man told me he’d h-help me get home b-b-but he just too-took me here a-and tied me up and it was _c-c-old_ and-”

He gently brushed the tears from her cheeks, wishing that his gauntlets weren’t so dirty, and wrapped his cape around her shoulders. His wordless murmurs weren’t enough to calm her, but he didn’t expect them to be.

A man came forwards and took her hand. “Easy, honey. Batman and Black Bat saved us. It’s all right.” To Batman he added, with a moment of hesitation, “My name’s Sam. I… Noah’s- was a friend of mine. I saw what your girl did, and… thank you.”

“Do you know his daughter?” Batman asked, ignoring the bubble of pride in his chest.

Sam nodded. “Sweet girl. I’ll look after her- she’n her da didn’t have anyone else.”

Batman nodded. “The police are on their way. You’ll all be home before long.”

When he turned, Black Bat was standing behind him, face unreadable. “Home now?”

Batman glanced up as the sound of police sirens grew closer, and he nodded. “Jim can take it from here.”

She was gone moments later, and he spared a moment to nod to the civilians before he followed her up onto the roof of a nearby building.

She wasn’t moving, though. Instead, she was sitting curled up, her knees tucked up to her chest. Bruce frowned.

“Cassandra.” She didn’t look up, staring out at the city lights.

“Failed.”

“No,” he said, sitting down next to her. “No, you didn’t.”

“Noah Marisson-” she started, breath hitching in her throat.

“You did all you could.”

There was a moment of silence, the wind ruffling cold around them. Finally, Bruce said, “My father was not a fighting man.”

Cass looked up, something like confusion on her face.

“He was a doctor,” Bruce continued. “He would help out at Leslie’s clinic often, or he’d help people at the house. I remember once he thought I’d gone to bed while he was helping one of his patients.”

She tucked her arms closer around herself, shivering. Bruce lifted up his cape- an offering- and she was quick to burrow against his chest.

“He stayed by that woman’s side the whole night,” he continued. “Speaking to her. Reassuring her. There was nothing he could do to save her life, but he made her final hours bearable.”

Cass pressed herself against him, one hand finding his. He looked out over the skyline, out to where the city ended in a smear of fog.

“He’d be so proud of you.” _And I am too,_ he didn’t say, but Cass sighed and tugged his cape closer, and he knew she understood.

“I…” She struggled with the words for a second, then lifted her hands. _I’m proud,_ she signed, _to be like him._

 _Let’s go home,_ he signed back. _A made cookies._

 _Home,_ she agreed, and they stood.

* * *

There was very little that Bruce hated in that moment more than Xander Stevens.

The man was wearing a suit just the far side of too expensive, with a smarmy grin that was all too common at Wayne galas. Sometimes Bruce thought that his children were the only genuine ones here. More genuine than Xander Stevens, or him.

“-looking forwards to working more closely with you,” Stevens said as Bruce, regretfully, refocused on him. “Of course, we’d have to make arrangements.”

“Of course, Mr. Stevens,” Bruce said, signalling one of the waiters. Stevens grinned like a cat with a canary in its mouth.

“Please, call me Xander,” he said brightly. “With how closely we’ll be working together, I think we can use first names, don’t you?”

“I look forward to it,” Bruce said, wondering if it was rude to disappear from your own gala.

Stevens draped an arm across his shoulders, and Bruce hid a shudder. “Oh, don’t be so cold, Bruce. I’m sure I can help you... warm up to me.”

Something like alarm bells started tolling in his head, and Bruce pulled away, not caring any longer if it was polite. Stevens’ grin turned into a snarl, and Bruce tensed.

But before a fight could break out, the waiter appeared, stumbling with Bruce’s drink in one hand. The liquid sloshed, and the man sucked in a breath as it splattered onto Stevens’ crisp white shirt.

“I am so sorry,” the man said. Something about his voice was familiar, but Bruce was too distracted to place it. “Here, let me-”

He reached for the towel at his waist, but the platter of drinks tilted dangerously, and Stevens didn’t back up quick enough. His shoes were soaked with alcohol as the glasses crashed to the ground, leaving a sticky mess of glass and liquid.

“My _sincerest_ apologies,” the waiter said, and this time there was an edge to his voice, just enough to make Bruce uneasy. “Why don’t you go clean up, sir?”

Stevens sneered and turned to stalk away, and a half-dozen employees converged on the mess as the waiter took Bruce’s elbow and tugged. He followed.

“Lucky I was there to save your ass, old man,” the waiter muttered, and Bruce recognized him.

“Jason?” It didn’t look like his second son at first glance- he’d used some (presumably wash-out) brown dye on his hair, and had brown contacts in that didn’t quite cover up the Lazarus green. Jason glared at him.

“I come here just to gang up on Dickie with the Replacement, and instead I end up having to bail you out from some rich fucker. Typical.”

Bruce’s head was still spinning, all full of memories of flowery perfume and sweat, so he said the first thing that came to mind. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t enjoy that.”

Jason laughed. “Sue me. That guy had it coming.”

Bruce smiled, sitting down on the small couch in the study and pretending like it wasn’t because his knees were about to buckle. “But really, Jay, thank you. If you hadn’t been there-”

“You’d have survived,” he said, brushing back his bangs and frowning at his fingers when they came back stained. “You do remember you’re The Goddamn Batman, right?”

Bruce shrugged one shoulder. “True. But it’d have made a scene.”

“Like I didn’t?” Jason asked, leaning against one wall. “I spilled like two dozen drinks on that guy.”

“No one cares about clumsy waiters,” Bruce pointed out. “Everyone cares about good ol’ Brucie Wayne punching a potential business partner in the jaw.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You’re planning on working with him?”

Bruce blinked at him. “Of course not. I’m going to look up his history and expose the corruption in his company and get his employees jobs at Wayne Enterprises.”

Jason shook his head. “You don’t do anything by halves, old man.”

Bruce smirked and relaxed against the couch, clenching his hands in his pockets to stop them quivering. His eyes drifted closed for a second, and he said into the silence, “Your grandmother used to do that, you know.”

He could feel Jason’s start of surprise from across the room, but his son just said, “What, dress up like a waiter at parties cuz she was legally dead?”

Bruce snorted. “No. She didn’t like galas- liked the socialites even less. She hated it when they’d act as if Dad was an idiot or corrupt, but she couldn’t make a fuss in public. She’d play them like a fiddle. Her favorite was to act like she was tipsy and spill drinks on them. It always made me laugh.”

He opened his eyes. Jason was staring at him from across the room, a look almost like pain on his face, and there was a sensation like a stone dropping heavy in his stomach. He hadn’t- he didn’t mean to hurt him.

“Sounds like someone I’d get along with,” Jason said, lips turning up in just the edge of a smirk.

Bruce chuckled, the tension in the room almost breaking. “Oh, you would. She would think you’re funny.”

“And you don’t?” Jason arched an eyebrow, but Bruce thought it was joking.

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Jaylad.”

Jason grinned. “Dick owes me fifty bucks.”

Bruce frowned. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” Jason replied. “Well, I’ve gotta go. People to serve, and all that.”

“You know, you don’t have to come as a waiter,” Bruce blurted out. “If you wanted- I have the cover story drafted.”

Jason froze. After a long, tense moment of silence, he said, “I think I’m fine where I’m at, old man. But I’ll think about it.”

Bruce nodded, then pushed himself to his feet. “Ready to brave the masses?”

Jay grinned. “Always.”

And even with the dye and the contacts, he couldn’t imagine how he’d not recognized him, that smile was so Jason. Bruce matched his grin, and the door swung open.

* * *

Batman was relatively good with children. Not his own, as he’d repeatedly discovered, but calming kids on patrol came easy. Still, as good as he was, Nightwing had always been better.

The little girl cried, dirty hands clutching blue Kevlar, face tucked into Nightwing’s chest. Her face turned for just a moment, eyes landing on her bloody leg, and she flinched, tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Shh, shh,” his son said soothingly, brushing one gloved hand over the little girl’s hair and tipping her chin up with the other. “Look at me, honey, not it. I know it hurts. Just keep your eyes on me, okay?”

Batman held the girl’s ankle in his hands, inspecting the wound. It looked as if her ankle had gotten sliced by a piece of metal, leaving a deep cut and blood dripping to the ground. Painful, certainly, especially for a child, but not life-threatening.

NIghtwing glanced up as Batman pulled out the tube of antibiotic ointment he kept in his belt. “Keep her still,” he said, voice more Bruce than Batman. He could easily restrain her himself, but it would be kinder and less painful if Nightwing held her.

“Look at me,” he encouraged. “Now, I’m going to need you to hold really still, okay? It’s going to sting, and I’m sorry, but it’s only for a minute, okay?”

Batman gently smeared it over her leg, hating the way she cried out. Nightwing pulled her against his chest gently, whispering something too quiet to hear to her.

Something like bittersweetness settled in his chest. When had the little boy he’d raised become the one comforting scared little kids?

Batman covered the cut with a bandage. “Done.”

Nightwing murmured something again to the little girl, getting slowly to his feet. “We’re gonna get you home, kiddo.”

Once they had returned the girl to her mother, Nightwing turned to Batman. “Where to next?”

Batman couldn’t speak for a moment, and Dick frowned. “B?”

“You did well,” he said, watching as the girl’s mother held her close.

Dick made a startled noise in the back of his throat. “Sure you’re feeling all right, B?”

He smirked and turned away, grappling up to a nearby rooftop. Dick followed, moving with the grace Bruce had never quite been able to achieve.

“Alright,” Dick said once they were alone, sitting on the ledge. “What’s eating you?”

Bruce almost clenched his teeth as he sat down- it was infuriating how his son could read the emotions he tried to hide- and said, “I twisted my ankle when I was six.”

Dick waited. Bruce was grateful.

“It wasn’t that bad of an injury, in hindsight,” he continued, “but it hurt. My father found me. He just kept telling me it’d be alright.”

“The girl,” Dick said softly.

Bruce shook his head. “You.”

Dick blinked. “What?”

“You seemed… just like him,” Batman said, unconsciously tugging his cape tighter around his shoulders. The weight of it was grounding.

Dick inched closer, so that their knees touched, and when Bruce didn’t pull away, he draped his legs over Bruce’s. “I just… remembered what you used to do, when I was really little.”

Bruce blinked, concealing his shock. “You still want to be like me?” It wasn’t the words he wanted to say, and he immediately wished he could snatch them out of the air and throw them away, but the evening had shaken him more than he wanted to admit.

It was silly, it wasn’t even a big case- not even a case, the girl wasn’t even orphaned, it was just a cut and some reassurance and _why was it such a big deal-_

“Yes and no,” Dick said, nudging Bruce with his heel. “I don’t want to be… consumed by the mask. Chewed up and spat out. But you were everything I needed as a kid. You made me feel safe. Still do, I guess.”

Bruce smiled, something in his chest settling. “I wish you could have met him.”

“Your dad?”

Bruce nodded, watching the city lights, unblinking, until they blurred in his vision.

“I do too,” Dick sighed, leaning back and looking up at the sky. “I would have loved that, I think. Growing up with you for a dad and them as grandparents.”

They both fell silent, too many unspoken words filling the space between them. Finally, Bruce rumbled, “I love you, chum.”

Dick laughed, soft and affectionate. “I know. And… for the record? I’m proud. Of being like him and being like you.”

Bruce ruffled his hair, ignoring his irritable squak, and got to his feet. “Is that food cart you liked as a kid still open?”

“As if you haven’t been paying them to stick around since I was ten,” Dick said, standing up in one fluid motion. “You’re buying.”

“Am I now,” Bruce said, not bothering to hide his amusement.

Dick snorted. “Who’s the billionaire here?”

Bruce pulled out his grapple gun and met Dick’s unspoken challenge with the hint of a smirk. Their grapple lines shot out near soundlessly, and they were off, cape snapping behind him and Dick’s laugh like a child ringing behind them. The wind lashed against his face, and for a moment they hung out of time, suspended between buildings and decades, the son at his side simultaneously a little boy and a man in his own right. 

The street lamps and skyscraper lights left too much pollution, but if he looked at the sky just right, he almost thought he could see the stars.

* * *

Bruce didn’t tend to look at family photo albums from before he was eight. At some point, he had divided his life into Before and After, like the gunshots had cleaved his life in two, a chasm that could not be bridged. He had no problems with visiting the graves. It hurt more to see them smiling.

The family photo albums were out, which Bruce assumed meant Alfred had been working on them. It happened every year or so- a week straight of photos scattered across tables and thick books filled with memories.

They were still out a week later, when Bruce had dealt with his case and been benched due to cracked ribs. He wasn’t stupid enough to disobey Alfred, but staying in bed when his children were out there, possibly getting hurt, seemed like too monumentous a task. He moved to the study instead.

The thick book on the end table was plain, with a card on the cover with _Wayne Family_ written in Alfred’s elegant hand. Bruce settled onto the sofa and paused. Then he lifted the book into his lap.

The first picture was a punch to the stomach, his mother’s wedding dress swirling around her, one hand clasped in his father’s as they spun and this _look_ in their eyes.

He remembered that look.

He turned the pages, something bittersweet and burning tangled up in his chest. He stalled at one of the pictures, fingertips hovering over the paper. It was the last picture they’d taken together.

He swallowed and turned the page, and there was a gaping chasm in the years after their deaths. When the photos began again, he looked so much older. Colorless.

But then something changed. A little boy popping into the edges of photos, hanging from the chandelier by his feet, his grin brighter than the sun could ever get in Gotham. He grew up in stop motion, taller and broader but no less joyful. His children appeared one by one, their lives compressed into pages of photos, each captioned in Alfred’s careful script.

The door swung open softly, and Bruce looked up to see Alfred, silent and calm. His face held no surprise when he saw Bruce, or the book in his lap. For all the years they’d had, he never quite learned to read Alfred.

“I suppose it was too much to hope for that you would stay in bed?” Alfred asked, voice tinged with disapproval. Bruce shook his head.

“Couldn’t sit still.”

Alfred nodded briskly. “You’ll be happy to know that Masters Dick and Damian are headed home safely. Master Tim and Miss Cassandra are staying at her apartment for the night. Neither one of them is injured. Master Jason expressed his desire not to be disturbed, but Miss Gordon managed to determine that he is also unharmed.”

“Good,” Bruce grunted, relaxing back against the cushions. Some of the nervous energy buzzing around his chest had dissipated- it wouldn’t go away until he’d seen them for himself, but there was an ease that had been lacking.

“Family photo albums, sir?” Alfred asked.

Bruce nodded, looking down at the pages, but didn’t elaborate. The silence stretched between them, unbroken.

“Do you think they’d be proud of me?”

Alfred blinked, the only sign of shock he would show. “Of course, Master Bruce. Do you doubt it?”

Bruce traced one finger across the edge of the page. “Dad was a doctor, Alfred. Not a fighter. I don’t think he’d like it that I hurt people every night.”

“Your father was a doctor,” Alfred said, in the slow way he had, that made you sit up and pay attention. “He knew the importance of hurting in order to heal. You have built so much, sir.”

Bruce caught his cheek between his teeth, biting absently, and turned to the last page. He froze.

Alfred had broken from strict chronological order, and the last two pages were taken up by one large picture each. On the left, a picture of Thomas and Martha, Bruce propped on his hip, looking at him and each other with so much love it looked like they would burst. And on the right, a picture that they’d taken only weeks ago. Bruce in the center, Cass tucked beneath his arm, Dick and Damian on his other side, Jason with Tim in a headlock. Even Steph and Barbara were in the frame, laughing at them.

Alfred stepped closer, looking at the photos over his shoulders. “I was struck by these photos,” he commented.

Bruce frowned. “Why these ones?”

“The way your parents looked at you,” he said simply. “And how you looked at your children.”

Bruce looked back at the photos again, and sure enough, there was the echo of his parents in him, reaching through the generations. He traced his fingertips across his parents’ faces.

“There is so much of them in you, Master Bruce,” Alfred said softly, gentle hand resting on his shoulder. “I see it every day.”

Bruce sighed, resting his head against Alfred’s wrist. “Not just them.”

He could feel the man go still even though he wasn’t moving. Then he smiled over Bruce’s shoulder and agreed, “No, perhaps not.”

Gentle hands lifted the book from his lap, shutting it with a soft snap and setting it on the end table again. Alfred moved around so that he could look Bruce in the eye and ordered, “Sleep, Master Bruce. If I see you awake again within the next six hours, I shall be forced to use more drastic methods.”

“Alf,” he protested.

“No, sir.” Alfred stared him down, and Bruce sighed, leaning back against the couch.

“If there’s an emergency-”

“Your children are more than capable, Master Bruce,” Alfred reminded him gently. “Now sleep, my boy. Gotham will survive without you.”

He pulled the curtains shut, and Bruce slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments welcomed and appreciated!


End file.
